Our Point of Convergence
by Yozora-kun
Summary: In which Sasuke is more than a little resentful about having Uchiha blood running through his veins and a Minato with familiar whisker marks claims to be the son of Konoha's Orange Storm. And Naruto? He still ponders what it's like to have a family, unaware of the two individuals who've unknowingly breached the barriers of time and space if only to be in his presence again. WIP


**Disclaimer:** All characters and canon plot from Naruto are the intellectual properties of Masashi Kishimoto. Any resemblance of a plot and any future original characters found within this work of fiction belong to me.

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 **A/N** : For those who are wondering why I've re-uploaded this for the third time, let me just say I wasn't too happy with the first few iterations of the prologue. I felt like I got the characterisations wrong at the start. I also felt I hadn't quite captured the emotions I was trying to convey and sought to rectify it.

If you enjoyed the prologue, feel free to drop a review or add this story to your follow/favourites list. Also, if you want to check out some art I drew based off this AU, you can visit my DeviantArt account (username: FinnianDonovan)

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 **Last edited** : 30/11/2018

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 **Our Point of Convergence**

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' _For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. And when you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you._ '

— C. Dickens

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Prologue

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Blood. Burgeoning from his chest in a grotesque mockery of a rose in bloom, the liquid garnet intermingled with the green fabric of his shirt, seeping its way into every fibre, sullying everything in its wake a muddy carmine. The very air he breathed reeked of rust; the unmistakeable tang—all too sharp, all too visceral—clung to him like second skin. At the centre of the ever growing blot of crimson, just above where the boy's heart lay, was a searing heat barely contained within a deep, narrow valley gouged out of his own flesh and bone. Fiery tendrils—ones which had broken off the blazing furnace—lapped at the surrounding tissue in twisted, ravenous rapture, spreading outwards and escaping the flimsy confines of the cavernous abyss with little resistance.

Every breath he took hissed between teeth more amaranth than white, parallel rows of once-ivory palisades now clenched tight in a feeble attempt of stymieing each new wave of hell crashing over him, seeping into his very core until all that was left of his torso was a bundle of throbbing muscle and taut sinew strained to the verge of breaking. Not even the evening wind buffeting against his exposed flesh offered the boy the cold, soothing balm his body begged for. Alas, though biting and nigh all-encompassing, the gale could not extinguish the flames threatening to set his entire being alight.

At the height of his agony, the unlikeliest of distractions came in the form of a wet, almost gurgling whimper cutting through the fading echoes of war around him. The noise had been so foreign—so vulnerable and out of place—that it diverted the young man's waning attention from all else if only for a few precious seconds. No. Nonono! That voice… Kami-sama… that voice belonged to a kid, didn't it!?

The tattered remains of his mind scrambled to latch onto the faint sound, mismatched orbs of sapphire and onyx roaming every which way despite having been long since robbed of sight. His addled brain staggered to an abrupt halt, however, upon registering a certain dampness on his cheek he vaguely remembered hadn't been there earlier.

Understanding came to him piecemeal; dull, cold and haphazard, not unlike the first few trickles of rain heralding an impending storm. The stinging in his eyes, the sudden, taunting proximity of the voice, the way his chest convulsed in synchrony with every faltering mewl… these fragments of reality—jagged and dripping with a brand of accusation and loathing reserved for no one else but himself—coalesced into a broken tableau so painfully and utterly pitiful, the boy couldn't help but let out a laugh as bitter as the acid now pooling at the back of his throat, the sound only broken up by choked sobs he _should've_ realised had been his own all this time. Some _Child of Prophecy_ he was.

What right did he have to shed any of these thrice-cursed tears of his anyway?

 _He_ did this.

The stupid, idiotic boy that he was allowed himself to hope, hell, allowed himself to believe he could amount to something more than a harbinger of misfortune. He should've known better, should've realised everyone he held close to his heart were bound to suffer from the simple fact that he _existed_.

His friends.

Sakura-chan.

His mum and dad.

Kashi-nii.

Hinata-hime.

Kurama.

Naruto.

He had failed them. Every. Single. One.

He had promised to protect them until the day he breathed his last, to repay the unceasing love and devotion they had been so kind enough to offer someone as undeserving as him. But look at how well _that_ played out!

A war was waged.

Families were torn apart.

Neji had lost his life.

His baby brother was in a critical condition.

All because of _him_.

And so, as he lay there amongst a sea of mutilated and decaying bodies, life ebbing away to form a pool beneath him, the knowledge he was standing before Death's door turned out to be a not-so-unwelcome thought. In a flickering moment of clarity, he finally knew how to make things right. Images of his precious people, living in a future free from the tyranny of a madman, gave him the resolve he needed to make his way towards the gaping maw just ahead of him. Crossing the threshold would be his penance, a parting act he hoped would turn the tides of war in their favour.

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Kurama was more than just a tad bit angry. In fact, the term would've been considered a gross _understatement_. No, he, the sentient fox of legends, the greatest of the tailed beasts, was without a shadow of a doubt, positively and incandescently, _fuming_. The source of his ire? Why, the insufferable Namikaze idiot of course! If it weren't for the fact that he liked—er… what he meant was… tolerated, yes, _tolerated_ , that's the word—the brat as much as he did, he'd have brained the yutz with the tips of his claws the moment he decided to host the mother of all pity parties.

He couldn't believe this boy! Just how did the git come to the conclusion _he_ was the reason why their crapsack world now lay in ruins? What kami-forsaken mushrooms was he on? Better yet, had Kushina—that crazy banshee—dropped the kid on his head when he was younger? Because if she had, it would certainly explain why the so-called genius had nothing but cotton filling up the empty space between his ears.

And don't even get him started on altruistic imbeciles with hero complexes several miles wide! Of all the lessons the Blond Sissy had managed to drill into the puny head of that hellion, why did it have to involve self-sacrifice, huh? Why couldn't it have been about staying alive for the people who cared for him instead? Like, oh, he didn't know, the brat's menagerie of a family? _Him_?

Did the boy know how moronic he was being right now!? Of all the things… Penance? Really? And for events out of his control? Hah! That must've been the most idiotic thing the brat had spouted in a while. What good would it do for them to win the war and lose him? Had he even considered the feelings of those he would leave behind? How devastated they would be? _He_ would be? Kami, Kurama hated himself. Hated how he'd come to care. Hated how dependent he'd become and how much he wasn't bothered by it. But most of all, Kurama hated how helpless he felt. It was like Old Man Hagoromo all over again, only, this time, the kid was dying in front of him instead of simply disappearing off the face of the planet.

What was he supposed to do now? In fact, what else _could_ he do? He'd already tried flooding the boy's coils with his purified chakra and _that_ did absolutely _nothing_. It wasn't as if the fox could just turn back time and—

Kurama blinked. He could turn back time. He then blinked some more.

It might very well kill him in the process but hell… He. Could. Turn. Back. Time!

As the realisation hit him squarely in his furry, orange chest, he couldn't help but let out a throaty chuckle that may or may not have been laced with delirium. Taking a leaf straight out Sasuke's chicken scrawled book, he began to recall the one jutsu his Old Man told him to never use unless he was at the very end of his tether. Forming the first of many hand-signs, Kurama had to admit the yutz must've rubbed off on him more than he'd thought.


End file.
